


Asphodel

by mangomunkki



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, HoT Spoilers, M/M, Nightmares, Sylvari (Guild Wars), downsides of not being from Central Tyria - you don't know all the details, past Trahearne/Male Commander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangomunkki/pseuds/mangomunkki
Summary: “Asphodel, a member of the lily family, can be used to convey several different sentiments. The most common symbolic association is that of "I'm sorry”"Firnüel has avoided telling Zaya exactly what Trahearne was to him. Perhaps it's past the time for secrets.
Relationships: Firnüel/Zayyaan al-Nasir
Kudos: 3
Collections: Commander Firnüel





	Asphodel

_The jungle thrums with anger, the rage of the dragon digging into his head like it never did before. It has given up the pretence of hiding, having been found out, aiming to simply reduce him into a quivering mess before he can pick up the sword and courage to destroy it, to put an end to its existence. The corners of Firnüel’s mouth are twisted into a snarl, hands gripping the hilt of the sword tight enough to hurt. How dare the dragon hide inside the man he loves, how dare it._

_He turns the sword in his hand, the blade glimmering and glinting despite its damaged state. He closes his ears from the screams, closes his mind from the whispers. He thrusts the blade forward, at the mess of scar tissue that is Trahearne’s chest. He expects the sickening crunch, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation of the scream that is to come – the most horrible of them all, in his opinion._

_Seconds pass. Nothing happens._

_He opens his eyes, seeing a strong hand gripping the blade, blood-dew dripping down the blade where it’s cut the palm open. His gaze trails upwards, meeting those oh-so-familiar golden eyes, the emotion in them foreign, terrifying. Trahearne is staring him down with nothing but pure hate in his eyes, something he’s never seen from him before; even to his enemies, Trahearne was, if not kind, at least polite. This fire in the amber yellow, the coldness of his features, the tightness of his jaw, this is something unprecedented._

_Trahearne wrenches the sword from his grasp, his slack fingers offering him no resistance. The contempt in his eyes has him rooted in the spot, struggling to draw in a breath._

_“_ _**You** _ _caused this, Firnüel.” The words could be dripping poison, and they would still hurt less than they do now, coming from his tongue. Trahearne sneers, leaning forward, eyes never leaving his._

_“You could’ve saved me, had you been quicker. It’s your fault I ended up in this state. And now, you don’t even have the strength to put an end to it.”_

_Firnüel is choking on his breath now. “I-”_

_Trahearne doesn’t let him finish the sentence he’s hastily trying to put together, trying to somehow justify what he’s done. He shakes his head, tossing the broken blade aside like it was worth nothing. His features are warping, the mordrem corruption taking over and spreading across his chest, his neck, his face. But those eyes, they never change._

_“You disgust me.”_

Firnüel wakes up with a strangled, choking gasp, still feeling the shape of Trahearne’s name lingering on his lips even as his lungs are frantically trying to bring the night air in. The tent around him is dark, comforting at times but suffocating at others, like the covers that seem to stick to his skin, twisted around his arms and legs and making it hard for him to tear them off. The space around him is cast in a slowly dimming layer of mint as he works his breathing, ignoring the hot press of tears in the corners of his eyes, palms pressed against his face.

He can feel his breathing stabilising, still a bit shaky on the exhale but at least he’s getting oxygen in, now. He lowers his hands, still staring blankly ahead. It was a dream, he _knows_ , but it doesn’t get any easier, still – the constant stress he’s under, the pressure, it makes it all the easier for his subconscious to get the jump on him. He revisits old memories quite often in his dreams, he’s used to that, but the worst nights are when something goes differently, turning a bad situation into something even worse – Scarlet succeeding in her plans, Rytlock not returning from the Mists, the Judge refusing to even heed his request let alone allow him to return. Those are the kinds of dreams he will keep replaying in his mind for hours and hours, cutting into his already very limited rest time and contributing to more stress.

Firnüel hugs his knees, remaining sitting on the bedroll as he weighs his options. He can stay here, ruminating over his past failures and whether or not his subconscious is actually right about Trahearne having died hating him, or he can at least get some fresh air while he does it. He has no idea what time it is, but the dim red glow of the campfire sneaking through the tent flap gives him some vague idea. He runs his hand through the leaves growing on his head, re-forming the ponytail he usually sports during the day. It’s silly, he knows, but somehow, with his hair up, he feels slightly more in control of himself. And, right now, with the corners of his eyes still burning up, he’ll take every crumb of control he can get.

The cool air greets him immediately as he parts the doorflap of his tent, rushing around his bare feet and tickling his neck. The wind toys with the hem of his shirt, twisting around his right arm, hanging by his side and lazily holding onto Caladbolg. He’s not expecting to be attacked, of course, but taking at least _a_ weapon everywhere he goes is something that’s been ingrained in him for years now. Besides, after tonight’s particular nightmare, having Caladbolg with him brings a certain kind of comfort.

He moves his eyes to the campfire, startling as he realises Zaya’s still sitting by it. The sunspear meets his gaze, an obvious concern written on his face, but Firnüel tears his gaze away. He’s aware of how he must appear, of the mint still lingering on his features and the sleep-rumpled clothing, and of the way he hesitates for a brief second before mumbling a greeting.

“Firn.” He can hear a dozen unasked questions in Zaya’s voice as he moves to sit across him, leaning on his knees and just staring into the dancing flames of the fire pit. Usually, fire evokes no special emotion from him, save for fear at particularly weak days, but, right now, the flames offer comfort, driving away the shadows in his mind. Firnüel’s fingers tweak a leaf protruding from Caladbolg, a mindless action. He can hear crickets chittering away in the night, the wood warping and popping as it’s consumed by flames, and the quiet hum of the occasional gust of wind.

Zaya shifts position where he’s sitting, clearing his throat – quietly, as if not to rouse the others, who are hopefully still asleep. “Bad dreams?”

Firnüel exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. He settles on a nod, not feeling like speaking just yet. Zaya hums in response. “Kind of guessed that. I could hear you tossing and turning in there.”

Firnüel can feel the flush deepening as he realises Zaya must’ve heard the half-choked name then, too, and is probably just avoiding mentioning it. Ever the gentleman. He sighs, shifting his position, aware of Zaya trying to meet his eyes across the fire.

“Want to talk about it? It usually helps.”

He offers a shrug in response, fingers never stopping moving where they’re playing with one of the fronds now. “Not really, no. But I think it’s high time you get some answers.”

He knows Zaya’s been curious about Trahearne. Firnüel remembers at least one time he dreamt of him when in recovery, and thus in very close proximity with Zaya at all times. He’s aware he has an annoying habit of talking in his sleep, particularly during his nightmares, and knows Trahearne’s name must’ve slipped out. He recalls the conversation Bory and Zaya were having, back on the airship, how Zaya asked them something and they glanced over to check he wasn’t within hearing range before answering.

He didn’t take long to connect the dots, to guess what Zaya’s suddenly so curious about, but has, admittedly, avoided broaching the subject. It’s still raw, for him, because of all the residual fear and trauma regarding the whole thing, and he’s been hesitant to touch on the memories, afraid of how he would react when it came time to actually talk it out. His own feelings regarding Zaya aren’t helping with the issue, at _all_ , and neither did the kiss up at the ruined temple. Or, well, any of the kisses they’ve shared afterwards.

Regardless, he’s spent a long time avoiding the question, but Zaya is owed the information. Best he get it over with.

Firnüel’s eyes travel from the fire to the sceptre in his hands as he recounts the brief history of the past few years. How he met Trahearne a couple of times in passing, Caithe introducing them as she remembered he’d lamented so few of the teachers in the Grove being knowledgeable about necromancy and the so-called darker magic he’d found an aptitude for.

Talking through the events that led to the Pact being formed is easy enough, and he can hear a slight wistful quality slipping into his voice as he describes the way the artesian well was bathed in light and life, how, with every victory, they pushed back the dragon’s corruption a bit. It was truly a simpler time, for him, at least when looking back – he still thought his Wyld Hunt would be over with Zhaitan’s fall, and he was fresh and eager to go out there and prove himself, to be a Valiant worthy of the title and the Pale Mother’s adoration.

As his tale reaches the point of Zhaitan plummeting into the sea, he can feel his throat catch, knowing what’s to come. Still, the following two years from that point on weren’t all bad, he reminds himself, continuing on.

“I didn’t stay at the party afterwards for all that long. As I’m sure Amnoon showed you, I’m not really a fan of large crowds around me, all eager to say hi to the ‘hero of the hour’.” Firnüel sighs, hearing an amused huff from Zaya. He’s been a great listener, allowing him to get the story out with no big disruptions, save for an occasional sharper intake of breath or a slight change in his posture. “I found Trahearne, sitting by the cliffs. I was ready to blame the punch, should my confession ruin things, but, it didn’t. The Commander and the Marshal of the Pact didn’t get much of a honeymoon, or any real time off to properly get to learn to know each other, but we didn’t mind – we made do, with the time we managed to get in the quiet moments.”

The amusement in his voice fades away as his monologue reaches the point the jungle dragon made its existence known, the phantom pain of the constant headache being in the jungle caused still twinging behind his eyes. There is little to no flavour in his words as he recounts the growing psychological pressure inflicted by Mordremoth and the stress of the Destiny’s Edge and Trahearne still being missing. The verbal chase through the jungle is over disproportionately soon, compared to how long it actually took, and the final battle with first Faolain, and then Mordremoth in the Dream, are breezed past with similar efficiency.

Firnüel’s fingers still on the handle of his sceptre, and for a moment, he can see the spot where the blade protruded from the hilt, once. The jagged edges of the pale white blade gleam menacingly at him, disappearing from view as the smoke rising from the campfire stings his eyes, forcing him to blink.

“As it turned out, we hadn’t made it in time. Mordremoth had rooted itself in his mind, and would’ve been able to take over him completely, continuing from where it had left off. That… couldn’t be allowed to happen. So I had to kill him.” His voice cracks ever-so-slightly on the last sentence, and he can hear another sharp intake of air from Zaya. He’s probably weighing his words carefully, wondering which phrase of ‘my condolences’ or ‘I’m so sorry’ to offer him. He probably didn’t know it had been him who killed Trahearne, then, at least based on the way he’s reacting. Firnüel feels oddly grateful Bory didn’t share that with him – somehow, it would’ve just been wrong for Zaya to learn of this from someone else.

Zaya’s quiet is starting to unnerve him, even if it hasn’t been _that_ long. He’s just still strung out, both by the nightmare from earlier and having gone through the memories of Maguuma, no matter how much he tried to stay away from recalling the times control almost slipped from him or how close he came to giving up during those months. He turns to look at Zaya, opening his mouth again. “Sorry for the flood of information. I haven’t really had time to sit down and process things after Maguuma, so it’s all still a bit jumbled up. My subconscious likes to remind me of it whenever I get too stressed, I guess. Maybe it’s because we’re hunting a dragon again, since this is the first Elder Dragon we’re going after after Mordremoth.”

His attempt at a joke falls flat even to his own ears, but it at least provokes a reaction out of Zaya. He exhales, standing up and crossing the space between them in a few long strides. He crouches in front of him, staring him right in the eye intently before scooping him up into a hug. Not just any hug, the kind where you’d worry for the wellbeing of your ribs, if you weren’t so busy being hugged. Firnüel freezes for a second before allowing himself to relax to the embrace, his own hands coming up to link behind Zaya’s back. A weight is off his chest, now – he doesn’t have to worry about having to think of a way to tell about all this to Zaya, or under which circumstances the question of Trahearne might come up.

They end up sitting side by side by the fire for a while longer, the discussion drifting off into lighter subjects. Zaya points out a few constellations that are new to Firnüel, only barely coming up above the horizon in Elona and thus hidden entirely in Tyria. They talk of griffons, a fondness in Zaya’s manner when he tells of how he found Azza’s egg and raised her from a hatchling.

When Firnüel starts to nod off, a heaviness in his eyelids that he wasn’t expecting for tonight, Zaya notices, making a quick joke of him falling asleep where he’s sitting if he doesn’t lie down soon. Firnüel’s amused, more than anything – it seems some things, like Zaya ushering him to bed once he’s decided he’s tired himself out, are here to stay. Not that he really minds, though. He stands up, hesitating for a second before turning to face Zaya again.

He leans down, pressing a small kiss on his lips, keeping the contact light in case it’s not wanted – he’d noticed Zaya’s distance, with the sunspear not necessarily withdrawing but not being quite as affectionate as he usually was when it was just the two of them. He guesses it’s because of tonight’s topic, and curses himself as he realises he’s left things vague on that end. Well, at least that didn’t have time to brew for longer than it did. The surprised look on Zaya’s face lends credence to that theory, and Firnüel bites his lip as he straightens up again.

“What I told you tonight-” He has no idea how to really word this, but he has to get it out, it’s important and he wants to make it crystal clear to Zaya. “It’s a chapter in my past. A chapter I should’ve told you about earlier, admittedly, but in the past, still. It doesn’t… It doesn’t have to change anything between us. If you don’t want it to.”

His words are halting, unsure, but the meaning in them evidently gets across to Zaya, as a gentle happiness blooms on his features, his face softening up. With the light back in his smile, Zaya laughs, reaching up to cup his face and bring him back down.

“Can’t say I’m not happy to hear that. But, in that case, Firn, let me give you a proper goodnight’s kiss.”


End file.
